In Fragmented Memoriam
by TrailingEducation
Summary: A baby returns to the land of shadow and bloodshed, clutching a shattered piece in hand. [Sequel to: A Better Friend.]
1. The Monk

**In Fragmented Memoriam**

 _ **9**_ _ **th**_ _ **Dicembre, 1496;**_

 _The life of a monk is not one I thought I would live._

 _Here I sit, in my third year of isolation, and two since my dim-witted friend was called for the marriage hearse. I have spent it all in meditation, with only the memories of my family to keep me warm at night._

 _The time has served me well. I even thought I could bear to see my face in a reflection, and though I could not bring myself to look, it is the closest I have come to something near peace. I now think of my father – of Maestro Leonardo da Vinci, and how he has fared in my absence._

 _The terrible secrets he held, the confessions he had on his tongue during my childhood – has he found an outlet for them? Has my time in isolation brought him sadness, or has he too reflected on our lives? I hold a piece of Eden still; my uncle Ezio knows not, nor my grand-uncle and his confidant Mario, and if I were to appear now, after three years of absence, with it in my hand, is it not reasonable that they would be suspicious?_

 _O, I mourn still those years wasted with the assassins. Is it not my curse never to be free of them? If I flee, the memories damn me – if I stay, the deeds. I yearn to see my father and ask him, ask him how I can cleanse myself and reverse time to a place more innocent, and he and I could count the stars and map the constellations once more._

 _The meditation has made me more melancholy. The conversations I had with my friend were my respite, and when he was called up it was lost. I have not spoken in two years. I have forgotten my voice._

 _Is my beautiful Isabella well? Has she and my dear Benvolio prospered since we were parted? I count, and I realise my boy is nearing his fourth birthday – and I cannot share it with him, cannot hold him, for he is not mine to hold. Is this my sentence, Lord? Is this your wrath, or are you even there? Men are doomed, praying to gods for love and happiness, and those same gods will see them burn for the slightest offence. I can recite Sodom, can tell you of Noah, but ask me how and why a God will justify the death of so many innocents and I will fall flat._

 _The piece. I must remember the piece. I will tell you why I have opened this journal, after so long leaving it to sit; I make my journey today. Sfortunato, ho paura, ma il mio viaggio ancora. There are satchels around me, in this little makeshift hut I have called home, that I have packed and prepared for the trip to Tuscany. It is necessary I take them all. For one, dear Journal, holds the piece of Eden._

 _It came to me when I was a child, sitting on the sill of my window one sleepless night. I heard Mario whispering to Niccolò, and he said that no Eden piece should be kept in chains – that the assassins would hold it and, if such a time came when people could be educated in their use, release them to the general population. Machiavelli demanded his word that it would be safe. Mario gave it to him._

 _It was my uncle who had brought my prozio the piece; he put it in a safe, warning the servants never to come near, and left it there. I was a fool to take it. I thought perhaps I could unlock its secrets and end this mad war. I hid it later in my cloak, then my safe in Venezia, and took it with me when I attended Ettore's dinner. How foolish I was! How stupid, how dangerous, how reckless! If that Templar dog had discovered what I held and taken it with my weapons, would I be responsible for the world's end? Would it be thousands of years of wasted bloodshed for one poor decision?_

 _I had it with me when I escaped; it was one of my last possessions, save my blade and my clothes, and I vowed to study it. I came here to the mountains and researched, bartering with wanderers and the occasional merchant for materials, and hunting for my food. I met Marcuccio when he and I had a dispute over a goat. He was running – he was a farmer's son, destined to raise and rear cattle all his life, and he wanted more. How I envied the simplicity! He asked me if he could remain with me in trade for the goat, and I agreed._

 _Marcuccio was dim, but affable enough. He became my lone companion here, aiding me where he could, until the guilt caught up with him and he sent word to his mother. I imagine he is a father now. I do hope he finds happiness; he was such a pleasant man._

 _I digress. The piece. The piece I studied, and I discovered nothing. The makers were master craftsmen of an age lost to us – the engravings are mimicked in countless ancient monuments and structures, and yet there can be no doubt that this is the original. It is not the secrets it holds that have spurred this journey, though. It is the Templars._

 _It started a month ago, before I ever thought to open this journal. I had had a hard hunt – there are no animals in this thickest of winters – and resolved to come home. I found the door open. Never once have I left the door open, even with no neighbours or friends, in case that some wandering madre di orso came and claimed the place her own._

 _My entire study was ransacked, my bed overturned and my table broken, and all of this for a piece that was right before his eyes. He did not find it. I had it hidden on a shelf between my books, and because it looks so much like a piece of broken metal he must have thought it unimportant. He stole my cloak. My cloak! And he has all of my blades – I have only one left. I fear he intends to come and kill me in the night. I have bartered with my life by remaining for so long, but I am not known for my luck. I must leave._

 _I must return to Monteriggioni and find my uncle. I must return to him the piece of Eden, and I must warn him that the Templars are searching for it. I hope my father is not too furious to see me. O let him be well! It has been too long without him to find him suffering._

 _I must away, dear Journal, and load the satchels for my journey. I will update my adventure another time._

 _Distinti nella fede;_

 _Fiorentino da Vinci._


	2. The Road of Remembrance

The world had not changed in all the time he had removed himself from it. It was the same as he remembered; the fields freshly manure-d; the far-off scent of blood and metal; the countryside and meadows that stretched out endlessly before him; and countless faces, all of whom seemed different in a rather uniform way.

 _ **24**_ _ **th**_ _ **Dicembre, 1496**_

 _I wish I were more fluent in my writing. I had dreams of authorship as a child; dreams I still wish I could follow. Father used to tell me he was blessed with such an even-tempered son as I. There were children who made their parents white at the roots with horror, and children who spent their time chasing fairy-tales and love affairs; and there were children who immersed themselves in books and forgot to eat._

The mule he had purchased worked tirelessly, and on his cart he had the satchels piled high. The people he passed must have assumed him either a merchant or a traveller of sorts. There were some who cast him sympathetic glances, and others that nodded with a strange air of respect; either way, he drew his hood over his head to quell his paranoia. The Templars that were after him were a ubiquitous threat, and he could trust no one until he reached his family's estate.

There were winding roads he followed that he remembered from boyhood. The mountains he for three years had called home dwindled and became hills, and then more fields and meadows, countryside that once filled him with dread. Now, he felt the most curious nostalgia.

 _There are countless lives lived here; farmers and their families, all of them murmuring curses and prayers under their breath, and were I a member of this hopeless harvest perhaps I would turn to prayer as well. The winter crops are the most troublesome. The pests may be dead, but the vultures have turned to frost and the frost hardens all the farmland. The animals are all of them in hibernation, or flown somewhere else. How humans wish they had the wings of a bird! We would take to the skies, and then conquer them, and no more would the sky be._

 _Maestro always wanted to see man soar above the clouds._

The countryside had a curious scent to it that reminded him of women's perfume; flowery, and yet artificial. The smells were separate, however – there was a merchant passing him by with a bouquet of roses, and when he passed the smell became more metal and gunpowder than anything else.

He was near to Monteriggioni. He could hear the cannons firing, and Fiorentino wondered if it was in practice or war.

 _I thought to turn myself in when first I started my hermit life. Isolation was no punishment, surely? The people deserved my head for all I had done to them. No, I had told myself – what sentence could be more fitting for a murderer? There are no victims in isolation, no hurt or heartache, and you alone suffer the consequences up there in the mountains, where no one can find you._

 _Marcuccio was an unintended visitor in my home, and in hindsight I should never have allowed him sanctuary. The punishment was for me alone; how could I have served it with another at my side? I did, however, and he left all the same. I suppose it was meant to be that I spent that time in seclusion._

 _If not for the piece, perhaps I would allow this Templar lacchè his pleasure. How perfect it would be for a murderer to die at the hands of another murderer._

The man with his mule continued on the path towards the walls. The cannons fell silent as he approached, though he saw a few of the archers nudge each other and gesture towards him. He noticed how high the towers were, and for a moment he searched for the familiar faults and scuffs he had mapped out as a boy.

There was a fresh coat of paint that hid them, he realised; another of Ezio's contributions to the town. His uncle's wanderings had led him on profitable avenues. Ezio's altruism was well-respected, he recalled, as he went to the gates and was stopped by a rather well-outfitted guardsman.

"Ciao, straniero," he said, with his armour polished and his sword holstered; "That's a lot of satchels with you. Are you a merchant?"

Fiorentino shook his head. He did not trust his voice after so long of silence, and he was almost afraid to use it again.

"Not a merchant? Then what are you?"

He sighed. He remembered the man. Dante was a loyal soldier – Mario had often used him for various assignments, and he was able to say he followed them to the letter – but if someone was not of Monteriggioni or, worse, Tuscany, he would treat them with suspicion.

"I've come for the Auditores," he murmured in his gruff, unused voice; "I have something for them. It's important."

"Is it now? Are you a friend? An ally? Does Mario know you're coming?"

"Entrambi. But no; I suspect Mario will be quite surprised to see me."

The guard's eyes narrowed and he came closer. Fiorentino's hood was still pulled up to hide his face, and for one mad moment he considered the idea that he too was a Templar - that he had come to his family's estate and it was too late to save them. Then he remembered the man's loyalty. There was no chance he would meekly submit to Templar rule.

"Do I know you?" he asked. It was all the warning Fee had before he pulled his hood down.

Fiorentino seemed a different man from when he had disappeared, with his hair now wild and unruly and a dark beard on his once clean-shaven face. There was the attitude of a hermit about him in the way he shied from the guard's eyes and squirmed uncomfortably on being exposed, but his eyes – it was impossible to forget those eyes.

"Fiorentino?" the man muttered; "Fiorentino Auditore? Is that you?"

"Please, Dante, will you let me to the villa without revealing me to the others? I have something important for Mario that mustn't wait."

"It's been three years! The Auditores thought you dead – why return now, after so long? Where have you been?"

The man reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. It was a calming touch, and with his deep brown eyes he silently implored him to relax.

"It's complicated. Rest assured I've not turned traitor."

"This is unusual, Fee – I'm not sure I can let you in without alerting Mario first."

"Then alert him. Tell him a visitor comes to the villa, but not who. There mustn't be an uproar; the information I have with me is delicate, to say the least."

"Non sono sicuro-"

"Dante, trust me when I say this - Mario will thank you for the discretion."

There was a moment in which Fee thought perhaps he would not do it, and then the fair haired guardsman sighed and opened the gates. It occurred to him, after he thanked Dante and hurried inside with his cart, that never before had he seen a guard there – and then he realised that he had not even seen the stableman.

Then it occurred to him. It was final day of Advent; the devout were in their homes fasting, which was why the streets were so quiet and empty, and until the night he would see no one.

 _I remember the festivities in Venezia, and snatches of them in Florence; there would be the pious who abstained during Advent, and on the final night Maestro and I would watch the pilgrims leave for their churches, and sometimes even attend the Nativity. Never did I think I would forget it – Father loved the festivities, and the eagerness of others to join in on them._

 _Is this not a miracle, that a lost boy should return to his family on the eve of Christ's birth? Is it an omen that the boy is no longer, and he comes with such awful news? I will not dabble in omens and prophecy. That is for a man more intelligent, and less pressed than I._

The villa he could see ahead of him; the grotesque stone now cared for and painted, the repairs made, and in his mind's eye Fee could see the white stairs and the beautiful chandelier, and the art gallery, and the armoury, and the garden where he had spent a little time in during his childhood.

It took him a few breaths to steady himself. Then with his mule and his satchels, Fiorentino pressed on.


	3. The Boy

Dante sent ahead the messenger. It was necessary, or else he feared the reprimanding he might receive. The soldier had a reputation to uphold, and not even for Fee – not even for his own kinsmen – would he endanger that.

The messenger passed him on the stairs; a lithe man, and one who had stolen a satchel from the cart as though to confirm he had no weapons. It mattered not. Fiorentino had already removed the piece from where it was hidden, and in his hand he clutched it, hoping his return would not cause the others any undue heartache.

The villa loomed ahead of him. It reminded him of those towers in his old stories, where the damsels and the dames were all hidden for the hero to find, or trapped there by some evil force. There was no sun to cast deep shadows and no armed guardsmen near, but Fiorentino felt a shiver up his spine all the same.

He passed that crest he so despised; the crest that spoke of assassins and murder, and held him forever bound to that life. Mario had always put him on a pedestal as a loyal soldier. He thought him the child that would follow in his father's footsteps, when he never even considered Federico his father.

The trees that he used to climb as a child were no longer there. The renovations had uprooted them, and left in their place man-made wells and small plinths for smaller statues. If he recalled, there were more plinths behind the villa that doubled as containers, opened only by statuettes hidden around Monteriggioni. Ezio had once vowed to find them all and discover what had been left behind by his ancestors. Fee was uncertain if he had managed it in his absence.

 _The winters here are much warmer than in the mountains. There are animals still; dogs and cats, and a few horses. I can recall not even a single creature that I came across in the cold months, not even a madre di orso, or a wolf pup born too late in autumn._

 _I miss the trees in bloom. There are blossom trees in the garden that reminded me of home – Maestro always had at least one or two blossoms inside the workshop when I was a child. He told me it inspired him. He said the natural world is a wonder, and if he the artist could not capture it, he was no artist. The time he spent rambling about artistry and magnificence…I miss hearing it, even if he repeated himself over and over._

The villa was different in minute ways; a potted plant where once there was none, and the occasional painting hung up on the wall. The walls themselves were repainted and the chandelier new, but otherwise it was as he remembered it.

He was uncertain if that made him more uncomfortable.

"Oh!"

The voice startled him, and when he looked up he saw a tall child on the stairs – one he thought seemed familiar. He was young, broad, with brunet hair streaked with blond, and he had the air of a soldier about him as he sized Fiorentino up.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Siate calmi - Sono un amico."

"No friend I've seen here before."

"Do you know where Mario is?" he asked; "It's important I see him."

"There's no one here. Tell me who you are."

"No one here?" he smiled and pointed to the study door; "It's open. If I remember, Mario never left it open unless he was in the villa. Where is he?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, moving down the stairs with his hand clutched on the banister. Fiorentino felt he knew him from somewhere. He was a definite Auditore – the distrustful attitude alone was enough to tell him that – but he had trouble placing him.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, it came to him.

 _It had been so long, I had forgotten him. It was Angelo – the little boy who had wanted me to teach him free-running, and who was terrified of thunderstorms. How tall he is! I wonder, is his father still here? Is his mother, my aunt, still dedicated to the villa? Is there another in her brood?_

 _Am I again a cousin?_

"Angelo," he breathed.

"How do you know my name?" the boy demanded.

Fiorentino smiled at him and took a step forward. Angelo, who had for the most part stood his ground, involuntarily stepped back.

 _He was so outgoing when he was young. Claudia was always so exasperated with his friendliness._

' _Angelo, strangers are dangerous! There's no good in trusting them!' she would say; 'This is your home. If they aren't of Monteriggioni, I want you to stay away from them!'_

 _It seems he took it to heart._

"It's me," he said.

"That tells me nothing."

Fiorentino crouched where he was; something he used to do often, especially when Angelo was too short to properly speak to. The boy's eyes sparked with recognition.

"Do you remember?" Fee asked.

"Is that you?" he approached him as though he were a mirage, delicate and temporary.

"It is," he said; "I'm here on business - affari importanti. I need to see Mario."

"I'm not sure he'll see you, Fee."

"If he still supports the assassins and hates Templars, he will."

"Do you have news of the Templars?" he asked with sudden interest; "I can take it to him. The Templars have been bothering us for a while now."

"I need to speak with him myself. Angelo, it's urgent. Where is he?"

The child warred with himself for a moment. It was obvious he did not trust Fee as much as he had before, but he was determined; he needed to warn them and with each passing second, he had less time to.

"Fine," he said; "But I'm taking you to him. It's…you weren't here for a long time, Fee. I'm not sure he'll trust you as much as he used to."

"Let us hurry," Fee urged; "We haven't the time to waste."

He paused, but then turned and went through the archway that led to the garden.

After a moment's hesitation, Fiorentino hurried after him.


	4. The Study

"This simply cannot be. A straniero? There are no travellers at this time of year."

Mario paced the room, and before him his messenger was silent. The night was drawing in; soon it would be time for the festivities, but the man's mind could not be farther from them.

"Dante has never steered me wrong. Is the man a friend? Is he one of Ezio's allies?"

"He wouldn't say," replied the messenger; "Dante seems to think he's trustworthy. I stole-"

"That satchel had nothing in it but books! Bah, no man would travel with those without being either a scholar or a refugee. It must be a façade. If he thinks he can infiltrate Monteriggioni and send word to the Templars, he has another thing coming!"

There was a knock at the door. Dense shadows crept around the corners of the room, and Mario leaned forward to snatch up his sword and holster it. The messenger turned, though he made no move to open the door.

"Prozio?" a small voice said; "Prozio, there's someone here to see you. He says it's urgent. Molto urgente."

"That's Angelo. The boy's spoken to him!" the man hissed in exasperation; "Let him in. I want two men outside my door – if this stranger draws his weapon, I won't let him leave this villa alive."

The messenger did as he was told. The door was opened, and through it stepped Fiorentino with his hood again drawn over his head. He glanced at the room; another study, with bookshelves full of war guides and training manuals, and the occasional anecdote from an old soldier. There were windows with that semi-circular arch shape similar to churches', as well as a faded mahogany desk placed in the middle of the room.

"Leave us. Let the stranger and I talk in peace."

The pair left the room. The door behind him closed, and Fiorentino suddenly felt as though he had made a mistake. In terms of appearance, Mario was much older than he remembered – his black mane was streaked with grey and the corner of his eye sockets were creased, but he had not mellowed with age. In fact, he seemed more fiery than ever.

"Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to a chair opposite the desk. Fiorentino politely waved the offer away.

"I mustn't waste time with pleasantries. This belongs to you," he held out his hand; "I'm returning it. The Templars have found me, and I've no doubt they will come after it here."

The older man seemed conflicted whether or not to see what he held. Then, he took a cautious step forward, peering through narrowed eyes at the hand held out before him.

"This is…" he started, but then shook his head; "It's broken metal. What game are you playing?"

"I assure you, I play no games. This is not metal – at least, not a metal we know. It's a piece of Eden, Mario. It's _your_ piece of Eden."

There was a long pause. Mario opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it again without another word. His eyes flicked back and forth between the hand and the stranger, and Fiorentino could read them perfectly; he was wondering how he knew about the Apple.

"Who are you?" he asked after a long while of silence.

Fiorentino sighed. He reached up to the hood with his free hand and pulled it down, resisting the urge to squirm as it fell. He was not yet used to people, and after so long as a hermit, some habits died hard.

There was another long pause. He watched as Mario's eyes went wide, and half-expected him to rub them as if he were having a hallucination.

"F…Fiorentino?" the man murmured; "This can't be. It's you?"

"Sì, prozio."

"This…Fee!"

The aged warrior leapt forward and pulled him into a hug, and though he was careful not to drop the piece Fiorentino returned it. He had missed Mario; he may have supported the assassins and more or less led them over the years, but he had never meant to harm him.

"It's so good to see you, my boy!" he exclaimed as he clapped a hand on his shoulder; "It's been far too long! How are you? Where have you been all this time? The spies could find neither hide nor hair of you!"

"There will be time enough for that later. Prozio, the piece-"

"How did you come across it? Did you find it outside of its safe? I swear it's never left it."

Fiorentino was silent. His eyes stared into Mario's, and then it dawned on him what he had done.

"Fee, you stole this from us?!" he said; "That's close to treason! Do you know what would have happened had the Templars got their hands on this?"

"I did it in the hopes I could end this war. It was stupid, foolish – I thought I could end the bloodshed. I was wrong. But Mario, listen to me; you must heed my warning. The Templars are after this piece. They ransacked my home trying to find it."

"What would the Templars want with it?" he asked as he went behind his desk. He retrieved a small, circular key from the draw, and Fiorentino recognised it to be the key to the safe.

"I have no idea. Perhaps they're planning to put the pieces together?" he suggested. Even as the words left his mouth he thought the idea was hopeless, but his companion did not wave it away. In fact, he almost agreed with him.

Mario took the piece from his hand and put it in his safe behind an old war painting. It had moved, he noticed; whereas before it was in the main study, he must have moved it when the room – once used as storage by Claudia – was converted, and Fiorentino noted that it must have been much safer. There were many who knew about the first study, but there would be very few who knew about this one.

"There's too much we don't yet know about the Templars' plans," he said; "and the people will be out soon for the festivities. Fiorentino, it's been far too long since you were here. Eat with us, and tomorrow we shall start to figure out this mystery."

Fee wanted to protest. He wanted to say that he was tired and that the journey had worn him out, but something stopped him. It was the thought of seeing his father again. If he was able to, he would see Leonardo before the feast, and then the pair would be able to attend the festival together as they had before.

"Let me clean myself up," he said to the man; "I feel I need it."

"The maids will make up a bath for you. I'll tell Piero to send for them – you look like you need a shave, and a decent hair cut too. Even Ezio is able to groom himself when he's away."

"He's in the cities when he leaves. I was not."

"No?" the warrior's eyes were intrigued; "That's a story for another time. Leonardo will be thrilled to see you, Fee. He's not stopped hoping you'd return."

A small smile broke on Fiorentino's face.

"Come," said Mario as he put his arm around his shoulders and led him to the door; "Let's find you a razor, and cut that hair."


	5. The Quiet Reminder

The mountains provided very few opportunities for anything other than survival. Fiorentino had chosen an austere lifestyle; he thought he deserved no more, and perhaps deserved even less for his crimes.

That said, he had missed warm baths. The maids had heated water until steam rose from the surface, and as he undressed and stepped in he felt his muscles relax. Fee had many unsavoury memories of baths – memories of water running red as he scrubbed himself clean, and the occasional time he had slipped and hurt himself on the flagstone floor. The end result, though, was enough for him to cope with the thoughts.

He heard the maids murmuring on the other side of the door. Numerous rumours were shared, and he listened with a smile as some of the younger ones theorised that his return meant that he had some important information for their hometown. He had no more information other than the fact his people, those people he had vowed to defend, were in danger.

Leonardo heard his companion Mario enter the library, but he was far too engrossed in his notes to pay him mind. The man came in with a note of trepidation; he was unsure if the artist would welcome news of his son's return, or lament the time lost with him as his fault.

"Maestro?" he said as he approached the table; "Is this a bad time?"

"Hm? Oh, no – come in, come in. Can I help you with something?" he asked with a smile. Mario took the seat opposite him, though he wore a sombre expression on his face.

"I've had a visitor," he told him; "He comes telling me our home is in danger. The Templars are after him."

"Dio mio, that's terrible news. Is he a friend?"

"He is no traitor, that much is certain. If he was, I would have him drawn and quartered once Advent was over."

"Then I'm sure we have nothing to fear. The walls are high and strong. The Templars would have to have an entire army to destroy them, and the last I remember they were quite afraid of Ezio."

There was a moment of quiet. Then the warrior stood, and with a clap on Leonardo's shoulder he smiled.

"Come downstairs once the feast begins," he said; "I want our guest to see Monteriggioni's finest artist."

"These notes-"

"It's terrible to isolate yourself during Advent. This is the night to be amongst friends. Maestro, if for no one else, come for Gian – the boy's in need of some entertainment."

The artist paused, and then nodded. It was true; his apprentice had spent many days in solitary study with him, though he had fought to keep him there. His masterpiece required research and concentration, and if he ever wanted to leave Leonardo's stead – something even Leonardo dreaded – he needed to focus himself.

"I'll put in an appearance," he promised; "It's…it's difficult to celebrate without Fiorentino."

"He is in all of our hearts, my friend. Fear not. Fiorentino will return to us, of that I'm sure."

"I hope that's true."

The man in question was shaving with his prozio's razor. In came a maid, and as he smiled at her she curtsied, holding clean clothes in her arms which she organised on a small nightstand beside him.

"Thank you," he said to her.

"It is no trouble," she replied, though she did not raise her head to him; "The villa has long awaited your return."

"The anticipation may have set up expectations I cannot reach. I'm without news, unfortunately. I haven't even a souvenir of my travels."

"The others will not be disappointed; I'm sure you have more to offer than souvenirs and jewels," she gestured towards the door, where he was sure more maids listened to their conversation with baited breath; "Please, do not hesitate to send for us if the room's not to your liking. Much time may have passed, but we will serve you without complaint."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

The clothes were part of his old wardrobe; a beautiful white shirt, complete with black trousers and shoes made of matching fine leather. Mario had included a sword belt, but Fiorentino pretended he did not see it – he would not be so easily drawn into the world of combat.

Leonardo left the library after another hour. There was one problem with securing cadavers in Monteriggioni, and he ran into it too often to let it frustrate him anymore. The corpses that were donated to him were once soldiers; their organs were often too damaged to examine, and sometimes they were missing altogether.

He had quoted the case of the 'Heartless Man' more than once. The soldier was one of some renown, and when his family donated him – not without a sizable reward from Mario, and the promise that he would be returned for a proper funeral – Leonardo had hoped he had a prime specimen to inspect.

Then, he discovered that the warrior who had felled him was one of great strength. The corpse's heart was removed, removed by a hand, it seemed, for the wound in his chest did not indicate a weapon and the major valves were torn, not cut. Leonardo had told Mario their opponents had a vicious man on their team, and the soldier was returned to his family.

Fiorentino left his room feeling refreshed. He was not paying attention to where he walked, and so when he reached the door he collided with someone.

"Dannazione!" he muttered; "My apologies. I did not mean-"

The other person was silent. Fiorentino shook his head, and when he had regained some of his sense he looked up at them. His mouth went dry when he saw who it was.

"Fee?" Leonardo murmured, almost afraid to say his name in case he vanished; "Is that…Is that you?"

Fiorentino wanted to fall to his knees and hug him, but he was immobilised. The artist reached out to touch his face, and as he did so his eyes went impossibly soft – softer than even his son could recall them being.

"Maestro…" he murmured.

"Mario came to the library. He told me…told me there was a visitor. He never mentioned it was you."

"It's been a long time, Maestro. I never meant to hurt you when I left."

"I've never stopped hoping you would return."

Leonardo touched him and stroked his face. He held it in his hands, so soft that for a moment Fiorentino wondered if he thought he would disintegrate.

"My son," he murmured with eyes full of tears; "I've missed you so much."

He drew him into a hug. The embrace was so overdue that when Fee wrapped his arms around his father, he felt his own tears welling up in his eyes.

"I've missed you too, Father." He murmured into his shoulder.

"Bentornato a casa, Fee. Bentornato a casa."

 _ **24th Dicembre, 1496**_

 _Today, I have found my father. Today, I have known peace._


	6. The Commitment

Returning to life in Monteriggioni was more difficult that Fee had anticipated.

He had not relied on people for a long time, and the more he was pressed to use his voice the more he realised how little he had used it before. Marcuccio came to mind many times. Fee had considered contacting him once or twice, but he always decided it was for the best that their short friendship had ended – he was not the sort to dabble in the life he led, after all.

Beautiful winter mornings welcomed him when he awoke in a warm bed, and he soon discovered the maids were on orders to come in and stoke the fire as soon as they heard him shuffling in his room. The special treatment made him almost suspicious. Mario was his prozio, yes, and the pair of them had not seen each other in a long time; but had he not realised the extent of Fee's treachery? Could he not understand how, if the piece had fallen into Ettore's hands or the hands of another Templar, their fallen brothers' sacrifice would be in vain?

"Fee!" he heard a soft call from his door one morning, nearly a full week after he had returned. He was sat at his desk at the time, scanning through an old book he'd owned as a child, and when he turned he saw his father standing in the doorframe.

"Ciao, maestro. Is there something wrong?" he asked with a smile.

Leonardo glanced around the room. It was suited to his son's needs; a large double bed and fluffy pillows; a wardrobe for the few clothes he owned; three bookcases already stuffed with novels; two chest of drawers littered with Fiorentino's favourite texts; and a few paintings he had made himself, meant as gifts to welcome his boy home. The white walls were more cheerful for them.

"Your self-seclusion is starting to worry me," he said; "It's not healthy. Come. Let's walk the town, and I'll show you all that Ezio's renovated while you've been away."

"I must finish reading this."

"What is it?"

"It's one of the books Ezio bought me when I was a boy. Do you remember it? 'L'uomo Nelle Catacombe.'"

"I do. It was rather…unsuitable, as I recall."

"It was. I can see why he did it, though."

Leonardo came inside. He saw his favourite painting near Fiorentino's bed – a picture of the winter moon waning over the town, made in the first year of his son's absence – and as soon as he did, he smiled.

"Do you?" he asked; "And why is that, Fee?"

"It's accurate."

"Accurate?"

"Yes!" Fee smiled; "It's almost a complete guide to the catacombs under Florence, written by a man I remember to have been sympathetic to the assassins' cause. He may not have lived by the Creed, but he was certainly a staunch supporter of it."

"Fee, this was written before you were born. How could it help you now?"

"The catacombs under Firenze are the same as they ever were. I have faith their treasures remain where he documented them."

Leonardo sighed as he stared down at the novel. It was true that the writer, Adamo Confortola, had been thought sympathetic to the criminal underworld that existed in the Papal States, and before Fiorentino was born he was executed on suspicion of plotting against the Pope. That did not, however, mean that a work of fiction – and not a particularly good one – could help him in any sense of the word.

"Come," his father said again, this time taking a coat from his wardrobe and throwing it on his son's head; "You and I should spend more time together before Mario finds some errand to send you on. It's been far too long since we went for a walk."

Fiorentino made as though to protest, but his father had left the room before he could. He sighed and closed the leather-bound novel. The piece had been returned to its rightful owner, after all – could he not afford some time to enjoy Leonardo's company?

The pair of them left the villa with a quick word to Mario. The man liked to keep track of his friends; and since Fiorentino had returned home with fears of a Templar plot centred on him, he was even more cautious that he usually was. Even Angelo, who often went to play with the other boys in town's square, was told not to wander further than the circular training ground outside.

"This is amazing," said Fee as he saw the shops now new and remodelled, selling expensive wears that in his childhood they could never hope to afford; "Ezio has certainly outdone himself. Ah, is that little Eliza? She's so tall now."

"Sworn to the other baker's son, Lazzaro."

"Already?" he watched her scamper across the pavement to a small, thin house near the blacksmith's, with her wavy brown hair tied up in a red ribbon and her white dress fitted with black string, cinching it around her waist. She was no more than fourteen years old, and yet her entire future was decided for her. He still remembered her as a boisterous young rascal who Angelo had often played with.

"It was decided at least two years ago," Leonardo told him; "She and Lazzaro aren't thrilled. It's more for their parents' benefit. Her father and his father have an interest in cancelling out the other's competition."

"What better to do that other than a marriage?" he murmured.

The man's mood touched on melancholy, but when he saw Leonardo smile at him he brightened again. It was not the time to think of missed opportunities. He had his father at his side and, though he understood the Templar threat and his eventual return to the assassins, he almost felt optimistic.

"Venire," said the artist as he gestured to another street; "The church was repaired some time ago. It's much less cold in there, and there are no more pigeons nesting in the coffering or apses."

"Truly? It's a miracle. The old vicar complained all the time about those pigeons."

"The old vicar left, in the hopes he might become a monsignor or a bishop elsewhere. There's a new vicar there now – a lovely man called Marino. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to meet you."

"Ah, Father…you know how I feel about churches and religion."

"No one need know you and I are doubters, my son. In this world, that may be a death sentence in itself."

The pair of them went down the street towards the church, and Fee was met with sights both familiar and new. He saw children grown up and heard of the people lost since his disappearance, all the while he and Leonardo continued their secretive chat about some of the Bible's more improbable stories. It was refreshing to be in the presence of so many voices again.

"Let's not dwell on it," said Leonardo after a time; "Could the Great Flood have happened? Perhaps, yes; but where did all the water recede to? Were the oceans once much lower? I doubt it very much. But these are not questions you and I can answer."

"Abbastanza vero, maestro. They are questions for a generation far beyond our time."

"There _is_ one question you can answer for me."

"What do you mean?"

Leonardo cast his a sideways glance and smile, though Fiorentino could almost feel his concern. After so long apart, the artist had quickly returned to his mothering ways.

"That book," he said; "The one Confortola wrote. Why do you need it? What possible use could you have for the catacombs in Firenze?"

Fiorentino sighed and shook his head. He had not wanted to discuss the finer details of his plan, but he felt Leonardo was owed an explanation. His was the good opinion he most valued, after all.

"I plan on discovering treasures from ancient assassins," he admitted quietly.

"Treasures? Ancient assassins? Fee, you're hardly a man prone to fantasies. What in the world do you want those for?"

"I believe they may hold pieces of Eden. If I can find them, if Confortola's information was correct – he _did_ confer with many assassins over the years – I might be able to reassemble them and find a way to end this war. Imagine it, maestro. No more bloodshed, no more pain. No one would need to lose their sons, their daughters, to a cause that's so ancient no one's entirely sure what started it all."

"The war will continue on forever, Fiorentino. It's an ideology; men fighting against men for control."

"But are the assassins better than the Templars? We seek to promote peace, but we commit murder. We seek to open the minds of men, but we require obedience to the rules. We seek to reveal the dangers of blind faith, and yet we are guilty of it ourselves. These ironies – do they not undermine us, contradict all we stand for? Can I not set out for a new cause because my blood binds me to this one?"

"I fear your desperation to prove yourself a good man will have you die before you even become one. Fee," he turned and held his head in his hands, staring into his eyes with affection; "I look and see a tall, strong, handsome man, and yet when I look into your eyes I see that frightened child cowering in the darkness, scared of the shadows lurking behind him. Listen to me. God or no God, we are all bound in this life. It's a terrible game of chance, and if Fortune had not smiled on you and brought you to my doorstep, you would have died as a baby. I beg you – stop chasing shadows in the hopes you might change the world. Men will kill men, for it's in their nature, and we can do nothing about it."

Fiorentino stared at him for a moment more. In his eyes Leonardo saw a familiar flash of understanding and he thought he had convinced him. Then he shook his head and held his father's wrists, softly smiling at him as he lowered his hands.

"I cannot abide these tenets that bind me to a life of murder," he said; "I look up at the stars at night and tell myself I must do differently. If not for myself, for my son. If not for him, for the generations after us. There must be a future out there where mankind can know peace. I may have a chance to set those wheels in motion if I find these pieces. If I let that opportunity pass me by, then what have I done except bloodied my blade and orphaned children?"

"Fee-"

"What else can I do? Accept Fortune's cruel irony in saving me from certain death to bind me to a life of it? I love you, Father. But your blade cuts open those already dead, and mine makes them so."

The man smiled at him with those impossibly soft eyes, and then he gestured in the church's direction.

"Venire," he said; "Let's see these renovations. I'll not believe those pigeons are all gone until I see it with my own eyes."


	7. The Proposals

Fiorentino's studies forced him into strange sections of the Auditore library. Confortola had serialised much of his work, but a lot of it had been lost to time; he feared he would never find the information he needed.

 _Dannazione!_ He thought as he slipped another book back into its place: _Another dead end! All of my leads are drying up. Where will I find the information I_ _ **need**_ _?_

The extortionate amount of time he spent in the library was explained by Leonardo as 'rediscovering his place in society.' Mario was not quite convinced, but he did not argue. Instead, he concerned himself with the practical side of Fiorentino's return – the dozens of letters he received, for instance, from fathers all over the Papal States.

Once he explained these letters to his friend, the artist was shocked.

" _Proposals?_ " he exclaimed, the light from his workshop window filtering across the room; "Why on earth would they be sending you proposals? He's not been home for a month!"

"Fiorentino is an Auditore, and a handsome lad," Mario explained; "What father wouldn't pledge his daughter's hand to him?"

"A father who wants his daughter to choose her own fate."

"Ah, Leonardo, you place too much faith in the young."

"Forgive me for believing marriage should be more than a business transaction!" he went to his desk, which was covered in unfinished works and half-sketched ideas. Salaì had snatched a purse full of gold from the side, but Leonardo would not notice until the late evening, when the apprentice had already spent it.

"Mai aver paura, friend – I'll not force him into anything. But we _must_ ensure the family's future. With Claudia's boy under his father's name and all other of my nephews dead, Fee's children will be the ones who take up the blade when we're gone."

The artist felt his blood run cold. He remembered little Benvolio and Isabella, and how Fiorentino had parted with them to ensure his son was not bound to the Creed. How would Mario react if he found out about the child? Would he search for him, demand he be returned to learn the assassins' way? Would he haunt Isabella's every move with mercenaries and thieves until she had to flee Rome with her son in arm? He respected the warrior, but he knew he would never respect Fee's wishes.

"This is too much too soon, Mario," he said, scrabbling for a lead rod under his papers; "Fee has only just returned. Let him reconnect with the world, then we'll discuss it with him."

"Of course, my friend. We don't want to overwhelm the boy."

"No. We don't."

Mario lingered for a while more discussing the new renovations, and then he left to attend a practice with his men. Leonardo sighed as the door slammed shut behind him. How many times had he and the warrior disagreed? How many times had he argued that Fiorentino's life was not another link in the chain?

 _My boy,_ he thought with a sad frown: _How can I protect you from this?_

Fee had come across a tome that detailed the lives of obscure authors, some of which had been dubbed 'criminal.' It was a faint hope, but he searched for Adamo Confortola – and when he discovered his name and a bibliography of his work, he felt his heart race.

 _Could it be?_ He wondered as he leafed through the titles: _Yes, it is! This must be all the books he wrote while under Vatican suspicion. Look at these! 'Il Tesoro di Firenze,' 'Cappe e pugnali,' 'La nostra Chiesa Creed' – all of them were written with the assassins in mind!_

Ever since he returned to Monteriggioni, Fiorentino had worked towards his self-decided goal. Now that he had discovered Confortola's works, he felt another step closer to ending the war.

 _But how will I get hold of them? These books were written well before I was born, and no doubt those Vatican dogs destroyed most of the copies. But Ezio…he found me the first one. Perhaps he could find the others?_

Fiorentino did not dare venture out himself after so little time with his father. He had heard tell of Salaí's thieving and felt he needed to step in, and if the trail led him to Rome…well, he did not want to run the risk of running into Isabella.

But did he want to enlist the help of a man bound to the Creed?

 _I have no choice,_ he decided: _Confortola's works are too important to me. I have to contact him. Where is my parchment?_

He set about finding it, and after an hour had constructed a letter that he felt would convince his uncle. In it he told him the books were important to the assassins' cause; with them in the church's archives, it was just more information that was out of their hands.

Leonardo came to find his son a few hours after Mario's departure. Fee was engrossed in rearranging the library, and as he leant against the firm wooden doorway the artist watched, smiling.

"Do you intend to reorganise everything?" he asked, to which his son turned in surprise; "Not that I mind, but Mario complains if things are out of place."

"Mario never comes in here unless it's to research war tactics. I swear, those books are so worn out they're hardly legible. He must have memorised them by now."

"I wouldn't put it past him."

Fee smiled and returned to his work. His father took the seat behind the desk, glancing over his son's notes – and when he saw the letter addressed to Ezio, a puzzled furrow appeared in his brow.

"Fee," he said, picking it up; "What's this? Why do you need to contact Ezio?"

"I discovered more of Confortola's books," he replied as he finished a row of tomes and started on another; "Chances are, they're in the church's archives. I need them to find out where the Pieces of Eden are."

"Fee, I don't think-"

"We've had this discussion, Maestro."

"This path will consume you!"

"I'd rather that than blindly follow the Creed. I'll not discuss it more."

Leonardo made to argue, but thought better of it. He did not want to discourage his son from confiding to him. If that meant he had to support him on this mission, then so be it.

"Son," he sighed; "I have something to tell you. It's about Mario."

"What about him?" Fiorentino stowed another book in its place.

"He's received…letters. Letters that-"

"Proposals. I know."

"How?" the artist's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Father, I've been an assassin for a long time now. Information isn't hard to find out when men's guards are down. Does he want me to choose a wife?"

"Yes. He wants the family's future ensured."

Fee's mouth twitched.

"He'll keep wanting, then," he replied.


	8. The Correspondant

Leonardo received the letter on a stormy night. The courier came in drenched, his rags all soaked through, and though the artist offered the fire to warm himself by he shook his head and pointed outside.

"I've more letters to deliver!" he said; "Buonanotte, Maestro."

After he had vanished, Leonardo untied the little ribbon that held the note shut and unfurled it. He fancied if he was blind, he would still recognise the beautiful handwriting on the front.

 _It's been quite a while since I heard from Isabella,_ he thought as he scanned the page:

 _Dearest Leonardo—_

 _I have heard the wonderful news! A herald came by not two hours before and announced it. Fiorentino has returned!_

The artist's mouth became a hard frown. Neither he nor Mario had sent word out that Fee had returned, yet it seemed all of the Papal States knew. It made him wonder whether the old warrior had gone behind his back.

 _Is he well? Does he speak at all about his travels? O, does he still write? I miss his sonnets. If you would, could you send me some of his new works? I've run out of novels for Benvolio, and he would so love a new storybook at bedtime!_

Fiorentino had not written creatively in all the time he had been away. Leonardo had asked him. Outside a flash of lightning forked across the charcoal black sky, and with a furrowed brow the artist quickly pulled his shutters closed and secured them.

 _A wild night!_ He thought as he returned to his chair, lighting another candle so he could read in its soft orange glow: _At least now I don't have to worry about my boy._

With a sigh, he carried on reading:

 _Cristiano's feud with his brother continues. Their father's sudden death meant he bequeathed neither of them his shop – and though Cristiano is the eldest brother and Abele a bachelor, Abele still claims he has more right to it than my husband. How I wish the pair of them could sit down and talk it through! But no; Cristiano tells me negotiations are for housewives and politicians, and that I should trust in his judgement. How can I trust it when he refuses to tell me what it is? Gli uomini e le loro onore!_

 _Are you well, Maestro? Has Salaì completed his masterpiece, or does he still need materials? I've a friend – a merchant's wife, Carlotta – who owes me some florins for a failed business venture. If you send me a list of what he needs, perhaps I can procure some of them for you! It's the least I could do after you sent me that beautiful painting of the sleeping child._

Leonardo's mouth twitched again, this time into a smile. He would admit he had recreated the painting from memory – his famous 'Hand-basket Baby' portrait, the original of which now hung in the palazzo of a rich Venetian banker – but Isabella did not care about its flaws. To her, it was perfect.

"Maestro?"

The artist started at his son's voice. The letter fell out of his hands and wafted dangerously close to the candle flame, and out of panic he slapped it away with an involuntary yelp. It floated on the slight draft, twirling aimless circles in the air, before an amused Fiorentino stepped inside the room and plucked it from its flight.

In the candle's soft half-light, shadows were thrown across Fee's face, deepening and darkening around his nose and eyes and leaving only one side of his mouth visible. Leonardo could see one of his eyebrows was cocked and he was sporting a curious half-smile.

"Did I disturb you, Maestro? Reading an admirer's love letter?" he teased.

"Fee, don't read that!" the artist stammered.

"What? Why not? Is it another proposal?" he turned it towards himself and furrowed his brow, keen eyes scanning through the lines. Leonardo tried to snatch it from him, but he was holding it in a death grip.

Fiorentino did not react for a long while. Then, when he did, it was half-formed words and sentences, all of them abandoned as he spluttered on shock.

"Maestro…this…Isabella…?"

"I told you not to read it," he sighed, ambling to his desk with slumped shoulders and a slow shake of his head.

Fiorentino was silent for a moment. Then he held the letter to the side of him at arms' length, gesturing to it with angry confusion.

"What is this?" he demanded; "Why is Isabella sending you a letter? How does she know about my return? I Templari si scenderà su di noi!"

"Calm down, Fiorentino – please. There's no use in working yourself up."

"Maestro, what have you kept from me?"

Leonardo took a deep breath. He had feared the day would come when Fiorentino would discover his correspondence with Isabella, and despite all of the plans he had made to tell him he felt them suddenly disappear from his tongue.

"She and I have been in contact since she left Venice, Fee," he admitted, to which the assassin recoiled; "She was frightened and alone, with a child that wasn't her husband's in a new state. What was I supposed to do? Leave her?"

"Yes!" he replied; "We were all supposed to! She was supposed to leave this behind – leave behind this bloodshed and murder so she could raise my son in peace! I wanted him to be as far apart from this world as possible! How could she do this? How could _you_ do this, Maestro?!"

"I was supporting a woman who was terrified! We have never incriminated either of you in our letters!"

"No, but now the Templars will know she's been asking after me! Both my son and the woman I love are in danger, and all because of a piece of paper!"

Leonardo fell silent as Fee threw the letter on the divan, turning to the door with his hands on his hips. The assassin wiped his mouth and sighed, and for a moment he wondered whether he was furious at his father or himself.

"She worries about you."

Fiorentino made no sound.

"When you disappeared, she was distraught. Sent me page after page of theories. Wondered if you were in Romagna caring for new-borns. 'It would be just like him,' she said."

"A nobler cause than I can set my name to."

"Fee, Isabella still cares for you. But make no mistake – she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself and Benvolio."

"You and I both know how ruthless the Templars are," Fiorentino turned to stare him in the eye; "What if they come for her in the night? Rip my son from her arms? Slaughter Cristiano in his sleep and set their house on fire? They can claim she's an adulterer, that my son's a bastard, and all manner of awful things and the public will believe it. Even if she and my son were to live, they would be social pariahs. That's not what I want for Benvolio!"

Leonardo smiled and put a gentle, soothing hand on his son's shoulder. They eased, and with a soft voice the artist said:

"Fee, don't you think that's the worst case scenario?"

His son sighed and shook his head, not in answer, but in defeat. He half turned from his father and pressed his palm into his eye, and again the shadows on his face darkened and deepened, moulding his expression into one of weariness.

"Just…" he started, then went on; "She mentioned a feud. Perhaps I can send Abele a letter."

"Neither he nor Cristiano will open themselves to negotiations."

"Not at a woman's request, perhaps – but at the request of an old friend…"

Leonardo smiled and dusted his son's shirt for invisible dirt.

"And a learned man, as well."

"I planned to journey to Firenze soon. Perhaps I can stop at Rome?"

"Firenze?" the artist repeated; "And what for?"

"To investigate the catacombs. Maestro, I've done the reading. There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. Confortola had insider knowledge and he must have passed it on to his protégés. The books Ezio sent me prove it!"

"Fee-!" he started, but after a frustrated exhale said instead; "The Templars. Will they not come after you?"

"Of course, but have I not avoided them my entire life? One more trip to the dozens I've already taken."

"If you insist on it, I'm coming with you. I've some friends in Florence I want to catch up with."

"Maestro-"

"And if we stop in Rome, I can arrange to meet with a contact I've been putting off," the artist went to his desk, where his unfinished projects were left to be either completed or forgotten about; "Let's see – where did I put that parchment…?"

"What about Salaì?" Fee asked; "He can't be left here by himself. He'll drive Claudia mad."

"He can come with us. It's about time he saw the world again – Monteriggioni is too small a town for a budding artist."

"This isn't the same as the trips we took when I was a boy, Father. There's danger at every turn. We're more likely to be hung, drawn and quartered than we are to find what we're looking for."

"I haven't turned down a challenge yet, Fee," Leonardo raised his head to look him in the eye; "What makes you think I would now?"

The assassin faltered for a moment, and then with a sigh and another shake of his head he turned and threw up his hands.

"Very well," he said; "We leave within the fortnight. Be prepared, Maestro. This is assassin territory now."

And with that, Fiorentino disappeared out of the room and into the hallway, where Leonardo could hear his footsteps fading away on the cold flagstone floor. The artist rolled his eyes.

"Assassin territory," he murmured to himself as he searched; "Does he think I'm a novice? Come now, Fee, you know me better than that."


	9. The Broad Creed

Mario had heard the news of Fiorentino's imminent departure, and he was not pleased.

"How could you leave us so soon?!" he demanded one night with the man quiet and brooding in front of him, half-turned so that his shoulder faced the desk and his face was shrouded in shadow; "Fee, you've yet to even take your pledge again! Your oath to the Creed!"

"Must I go through that again?!" Fiorentino turned with an exasperated glare; "I've leapt a thousand leaps of faith, climbed a hundred buildings twice over, and fought blade and bare-handed with Templars in the field! Have I not proved my devotion? What more could the Creed want of me?"

"Our way of life cares not for how much you've done something, but the intention with which you do it. Fee, ascoltami. The men question you."

"And you believe them?" he snorted. The orange candlelight touched his face and illuminated the weariness in his eyes – a weariness that Mario recognised, and deeply troubled him.

"They claim you wander at night, searching for a fair-haired woman to save you," the warrior said; "Screaming blind fury at the fields, howling at the moon! Some say you're a werewolf. Others say you've lost your mind!"

Fiorentino threw out his arms and half-spun in place, as though gesturing to their surroundings. As he did, he let out a harsh bout of false laughter.

"Perhaps both!" he laughed; "Perhaps I'm a wolf without a mind! Beware the wolf of Monteriggioni, who reads Confortola and Chaucer and studies the works of Verrocchio! Beware his invisible dripping fangs and his wide hungry eyes, lest you turn into a statue of Altair!"

"Altair is your ancestor, and you'll show him respect!" Mario barked.

"More respect for dead men than those wielding the blade!" Fee fired back, and before his prozio could respond he went on; "But I'll not hear idle chatter amongst the men be used against me. I returned with that piece, and now I leave to search for others."

"This isn't housewife prattle, Fee-"

"No, of course not! Housewives have too much to do with chores and children."

"Our soldiers see their fair share of battle!"

"And what an unfortunate fact that is!" said Fee; "But, that's a debate for another time. The hour's late, and I must retire."

"You'll not leave without a proper explanation, Fiorentino!"

The man had already started for the door, but the sharp edge in Mario's voice told him he would regret ignoring him. Often he had wondered if the warrior would ever kill him; he was, after all, the wayward son of Federico, and after much discussion with Ezio he had discovered the man was no saint.

 _But he was unwaveringly loyal,_ he thought.

"What more explanation can I give you?" he asked, gripping the marble doorframe as though to steady himself; "I'm off to Firenze to search for the pieces of Eden. Once there, I'll send word to you – and if you hear nothing, assume the Templars have found me."

"I heard nothing from you for three years, Fee. Claudia and I had written you off for dead. Leonardo fell into a depression he scarcely came out of, and Salaì was quiet. Would you do that to us again? Would you not take the Creed once more, just for peace of mind?"

"Peace of my mind, or yours?" he challenged, but his voice was subdued, quiet.

"Both," said Mario, moving closer so that he could put a hand on Fee's shoulder; "I want our Lord to know you fought the good fight. I want Him to know you were a soldier of righteousness, and I want our ancestors to welcome you in Heaven's arms and call you a worthy man. But how can I assure myself you'll find peace if you'll not even take the Creed again? I have mourned you once, Fee. I don't want to mourn you again."

There was silence for a long while. Deep inside, Fiorentino wanted to tell him. He wanted to admit he was a doubter, that his faith laid with science and not religion – but he did not. Fee knew there was likely no City in the Sky with golden palaces and sunlit streets, and he knew his ancestors and he would likely never shake hands and call each other family. But there was a sliver of hope in him that he was wrong, and Mario's conviction made him doubt himself.

"Alright," he muttered, and the old warrior's eyes lit up; "Ma solo per la pace della mente. Whether or not I die out there, I want you to squash these rumours about myself and wolves."

"Consider it done," said Mario; "and Fee, know that we care about you. The Templars may have the manpower and prestige, but we? We have faith at our side. Our tenets will see us through."

 _Our tenets are contradictions,_ he thought, but with a smile and a nod Fiorentino excused himself, leaving the study and a content prozio for the comfort of his own room. The maids had thoroughly cleaned it during the day, and he saw with a furrowed brow that his nightclothes were laid out for him at the end of his bed, made up with new sheets and potpourri left on his nightstand.

 _Have they moved my books?_ He wondered, catching sight of the pile on his desk: _Dannazione! I'll have to reorganise them before we leave. But what's this? My journal?_

The journal had been moved from beside his bed to the pile, but with a quick check of the spine and the page creases he was relieved to discover no maid had opened it. Even if she had, he had not met one that was literate.

 _I'll have to be sure to hide it properly next time._

As he went to put it away, Fiorentino felt a familiar urge come over him. In the corner of his eye he caught sight of his quill, standing at an angle in his inkwell, and with a glance towards the moon he debated whether or not he had time to write.

The debate did not last long.

Picking up the quill and settling in his seat, Fee opened to a fresh page and brushed away invisible shavings. He dipped the nib in ink and, with a roll of his shoulders, started to write.

 _ **10**_ _ **th**_ _ **Gennaio, 1497**_

 _On a silent night, moonless, star-bright, I stepped forward and held my Isabella in my arms. Cruel Fate separated us, and wicked Time has changed us. She may now love a man who no longer exists._

 _But I still must go to her. With Maestro and Salaì I will see her again, and even if the man she loved has died, perhaps she will hear me. Benvolio did not choose to be born in this world of battle and bloodshed. If_ _ **I**_ _must die by the blade, he can die in comfort by old age. I'll not have him a martyr._

 _And I must remember to write that letter ahead of us. Cristiano, I pray your feud has not threatened my son's education. I should away, journal – I've some sonnets and storybooks to edit._

 _Distinti nella fede;_

 _Fiorentino da Vinci._


	10. The Story

" _And let not these beastly men hurt you, my children," said the Sun to her flowers; "Let not your petals shed in the summer when they must blossom, and let not your leaves wither and die. Let not the gardener prune you easily, and let not your thorns pierce the ladybird's hide – and now, I must name you."_

 _And the Sun named each one in turn, showering them with praise and warmth, until she came to the small stalk with the blood red petals cowering in the corner of the field. The flower shivered under her mother's mighty gaze, and with a smile the Sun announced:_

" _You are Carnation, and you are my favourite flower."_

 _And so Carnation trembled as Man came and saw her siblings' beauty. She watched as her sisters were married; the Dandelion was plucked for Greed; the Daffodil for Vanity; the Chrysanthemum for Death; the Amaryllis for Pride; and the Wormwood for Absence; the Buttercup for Riches; the Bellflower for Loss; the Poppy for Oblivion; the Rue for Regret; the Snowdrop for Hope; the Coriander for Lust; and even her beloved Rose was plucked for the handsome Love, who promised her wonders beyond her wildest dreams._

Fiorentino was silent as he worked on Benvolio's new storybook. Beside him laid sketches of the flowers he had chosen, and as he strived to perfect his calligraphy he hoped Isabella would be able to read it. She had told him once that when men demanded tidiness, he demanded art.

Leonardo came into the study some time during the night. The artist had struggled to sleep, and when he saw his son bent over one of his leather-bound books curiosity got the best of him and he crept to his side. Fiorentino did not notice him, so lost was he in his task.

"What are you doing?"

The writer started and turned with wide eyes to his father, who began to laugh when he saw the surprise on Fee's face. He blinked owlishly at him, then seemed to hear the question he had been asked.

"Benvolio's book," he said; "I'm writing another story for it."

"May I see?"

"I haven't finished it," he warned as he handed it to his father. The ink shone under the soft candlelight flickering at their side.

Leonardo was quick to scan the first few paragraphs, and then smiling he read aloud;

"The Lotus smiled as she floated serenely in the pond, watching as left and right the men came to pluck her sisters. Her tranquillity caught the eye of the peaceful, soft-hearted Purity, come to see the commotion on the fields, and falling to his knees he declared – 'My Lotus! My love! If I could take you from the pond and hold you in my hand, and call you mine without question, I would never let my eyes wander, never let another taint my love, for you are the most peaceful flower of all, and I cannot live without you.'

"But Lotus feared for her sister Carnation, who so far had not a single man had stepped forward to claim, and so she said to Purity; 'If your heart is pure enough for me, find my sister a husband! He must be strong and brave, beautiful and chaste, and he must have a soldier's loyalty!'

"And Purity bowed low and vanished from the fields, and Lotus waited as she watched Carnation shiver under their mother's loving glow."

Fiorentino smiled sheepishly at his father. He was not one for such wilful fantasy, but he fancied complex and realistic storylines would not please Isabella. She was the one who would read it to their son after all, and even with so many miles between them he feared the reprimanding letter she might send in return.

"Benvolio lo ameranno," said Leonardo as he turned the pages; "My! There's so many stories here. Are you planning to send him an entire library?"

"Close. An anthology. Every boy needs one," Fee replied.

"Ah! So Purity _does_ find Carnation a husband!"

"He would never have failed Lotus."

"Let me see – "A lion-hearted man Purity had found, with dark morose eyes and a firm frown, and dirt streaked across his hardened face. His moody steps after his friend made all the flowers rise to attention, and to her sisters Balsamine said;

"'This man is Impatience, and he is mine!'

"'No!' said Lavender; 'This man is Distrust, and he is mine!'

"'No!' declared Rainflower; 'This man is Hatred, and he is mine!'

"'No! argued Narcissus; 'This man is Selfishness, and he is mine!'

"'No!' shouted Lobelia; 'This man in Malevolence, and he is mine!'

"And Purity raised his hands up and exclaimed – 'Flowers! This man is neither Impatience nor Hatred, Selfishness nor Distrust, and never was his name Malevolence!'

"The flowers fell silent. The morose man said no words, though in his eyes a fierce fire burned that sent all their stalks quivering. The Sun burned brightly as his eyes fell on Carnation, and with striding steps he came to stand beside her, then crouched low and said;

"'My name is not Riches, and my name is not Glory – I am not Patience nor Peace. I cannot be called Courage, and I cannot call myself Compassion. But, I can be all of those things and none of them, and I can love you with a chaotic fire none but you can quell.'

"And so he rose to full height and bowed low to the Sun, and with a loud voice he announced;

"'My name is Passion, and if it would please you I would have Carnation as my wife, to love and to cherish with a flame eternal.'

"The Sun smiled down at Passion and her Carnation, who in her lover's presence rose to full height. She shivered no more and stared bravely at her mother, while beside them Lotus and Purity watched in awe.

"'You may have my Carnation, Passion, and her love you may keep,' said the Sun; 'and for your everlasting devotion I shall grant you a gift – that even if the fire dulls and dies, your love for each other shall remain. Mistreat this honour, and it shall become your curse.'

"And with another bow Passion plucked Carnation and made her his wife, and the Sun turned to Purity and said – 'For your dedication to Lotus I bestow on you my gift – that now, Purity shall be much sought after, coveted in every culture, and every baby born shall bear your mark, and every happy memory shall be thought with you in mind.'

"The soft-hearted Purity nodded and bowed, and with a proud smile he plucked Lotus from the pond and made her his wife."

Leonardo smiled at his son. Fiorentino had started on the illustrations. Passion was a man that took after the Auditores, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a grave and stern expression that faced off their enemies in battle.

"I wouldn't imagine Passion looking like that," he commented when he saw the scars across his weathered lip.

"Passion is found in the strangest places," replied Fee; "Why not in a scarred man? Why not in a spinster? Why not in a captain without a ship?"

"I see your point."

There was silence between them for a long while. Leonardo helped with the illustrations as best he could – he followed the written instructions and made a few changes he felt were needed to make it more 'child-friendly,' and Fiorentino did not object.

"We start out tomorrow," he said after a while; "Will Salaì be ready?"

"He's already packed. It's just a matter of moving it all to the carriage."

"Maestro…this trip…" Fee sighed and shook his head; "I can't be sure of your safety. I may not be recognised by the cani, but that's not to say none will catch wind of us."

"I'll not let you wander off to terrors unknown alone. I lost you once, Fiorentino, and the pain was indescribable. Hell could not cause me as much torment. We will be fine – and when we see Isabella, we can make plans for how to get you inside the Firenze catacombs."

Fiorentino offered him a sad smile.

"I only hope the Pieces will help me end this madness."


	11. The Rivalry

Fiorentino and his father loaded the carriage for their trip. Salaì had handed them what he termed 'necessities' – and even if Fee could not tell what possible use his hat collection had, he did not want to delay them further by arguing.

He was nervous. There were more than a hundred ways for their journey to end in bloodshed, and he was certain he would be responsible for it. The distant image of a dead man's face appeared in his mind as he loaded his essentials, his reticence not unnoticed by his father.

"Is that all you need, Salaì?" Leonardo asked the boy. Gian had filled out more in the time Fee had been away, teetering on the cusp of manhood, and his attitude had become more reckless and wasteful. He was belligerent at times, but his master could forgive that; he was, after all, his faithful friend throughout his son's absence.

"That's all," he said, brushing a brown lock from his eyes; "Other than my canvases, of course, but Fiorentino insists I leave them behind."

"Non sono necessarie." Came a voice from the cart.

"Perhaps not for you, Fee, but I need to practice my art!"

"Parchment and silver rods."

"Oh yes, because that's so-"

"Boys!" exclaimed Leonardo; "Will you stop bickering?! Honestly, it's as if I have two children with me!"

"I'm sorry, Maestro. I simply feel we should travel as light as possible. We've no idea what lies ahead of us."

"Rome," Gian sneered, and though Leonardo cast him a reprimanding glance Fiorentino did not acknowledge it. It was typical of the man; if Salaì ever tried to antagonise him, he found it quite difficult to do so.

The stable horses whinnied and stamped their hooves in their pens, dispelling what little tension there was between the trio. Fee returned to his loading; he wanted them to be prepared before noontime, perhaps even before mid-morning if he was fast. Salaì spent a few more moments wondering if he should help, before he turned and flounced through the Monteriggioni gates again to fetch his silver rods.

"I wish you two would stop your arguing," said Leonardo once he was out of earshot, climbing into the cart so he could help his son; "He's missed you so."

"He and I have an understanding. Let us be, Maestro. We'll come to our own solution in time."

"That boy has always idolised you, much as he'd hate to admit it."

"Perhaps he should stop idolising a murderer and start idolising his master," replied Fee; "Our paths in life are different. He's an artist, even if he rarely ever paints - un assassino non può influenzare un artista."

"On the contrary, Fee, assassins have influenced me plenty of times. I often painted the streets after a murder had deserted them. Ezio sent me letters when he found some of my earlier sketches were of him in the shadows."

"Did you ever sell them?"

"No, of course not. It would have been terribly incriminating."

"Then no artisan can be influenced by them," he concluded; "Not officially, at least. Never-mind it."

Leonardo smiled and tilted his son's face up to him, until he could see him in the cold dawn-light flooding over the horizon. There was that familiar brooding in his eyes; that morose air that made him almost enigmatic, and underneath it all that spark of strength, that morality that just would not die.

"Perhaps you should stop brooding," he suggested; "It will age you. Then again, it's sent the women of the town all aflutter."

"Maestro," he chuckled, turning his head to hide the blush rising on his cheeks.

"What?" Leonardo laughed; "Have you not read your letters? Some are falling all over themselves to meet you!"

"Father!" he shook his head, the smile still on his face, and went on; "Perhaps you're right. I've spent too long ruminating over my predicament and not enough time dealing with it. These pieces might yet end the war for us."

"Don't put all of your hope in it, Fee. Chances are they've all been found and coveted by treasure hunters."

"I hope not. If I can study them, even assemble them, we might find the answer to our problems – perhaps even figure out what started this timeless war in the first place."

"Does it matter? All men have the anger in their hearts to fight. I'd wager all women do as well."

"If we were to give them swords and shields, women would fight as hard as men to protect their loved ones," Fee agreed; "but whether they would succeed or it would simply bloody our fields more is another matter entirely."

There was a call from the gates that caught the men's attention. Salaì had returned with the rods; and with them he carried his parchment and his furs, and two more hats he claimed were 'essential' if he wanted to blend in with the Roman crowds.

"Even the Pope wears a less pretentious hat," Fiorentino commented when he was handed a twisted burgundy chaperon; "Gian, do you not want something less…grandiose?"

"Please, Fee! As if you know more than me about fashion. Have you ever even worn a hat?"

"I prefer hoods," he replied; "Though, as all people my age, I've worn a brimless scarlet cap before. It didn't suit my face."

"It did, you just didn't like it," Leonardo disputed.

"It was ridiculous! What man wears one without drawing attention to himself? What does a scarlet cap do to keep the sun off his head or the wind out of his hair? Hoods are just as good. Better, in fact – hoods can be sewed straight into an outfit."

"The assassin prefers hoods. Who would have thought?" Salaì climbed into the cart and searched for a place to put his new necessities. Fiorentino rolled his eyes, but he had come to understand the apprentice meant no harm in what he said – and if he did, what use would there be in anger?

"Prepare yourselves," he said; "We ride soon."

The horses stamped in their pens again, and Leonardo could swear that as soon as he said those words, the clouds blotted out the sun.


	12. The Town

"There can be no doubt, no doubt at all," said Leonardo in a deep, grave voice; "That every man I see before me now – assassin, prince, or otherwise – is doomed."

Fiorentino was silent as his father read the story to Gian. Their carriage rumbled along the path in the half-light of late dusk, and on the horizon he could see birds wheeling aimless circles in the sky, squawking at each other in their foreign tongue. The mountains loomed on either side of them as he sat listening, waiting for an ambush that never seemed to come.

"Doomed? How could a prince be doomed?"

"We all are, Salaì. Our mortality will catch up to us no matter how quickly we run."

"It's the fate of all living things," said Fee without looking at his companions. Gian, who sat beside Leonardo in his furs, wrinkled his nose and turned his head towards the path.

There was silence for a long while. Fiorentino focused himself on the road, listening to the horses' occasional huffs and whinnies, watching as their heads bobbed and swung from side to side. The very air set him on edge. It was too quiet, too peaceful. The occasional merchant or traveller that went past smiled at them and he spied too few swords on their person. Every man became a potential agent for the Templars. He was nervous, and all he wanted to do was reach Rome so he could set his mind at ease.

"Where are we staying in Rome?" Salaì asked after the cart had turned another bend in the road.

"An inn. Fiorentino will be finding his own lodgings."

"Why?"

"It's safer," Fee replied before his father could. His eyes were trained on a small town in the distance – a town with grain for the horses, and water enough for the rest of their travels. "Were I to stay with you, it would be too dangerous."

"The Templars-"

"Shh!"

"There's no one here!" the apprentice gestured to the empty world around them; "Paranoid!"

"Paranoia is a man's best friend. Venire, quiet. Don't speak of the Templars."

"Who will tell them? The flowers? The clouds?"

"Sometimes I wonder."

The cart fell quiet again. Leonardo glanced at the pair on either side of him, then shook his head with a sigh. He felt this elusive 'solution' Fee spoke about would never be found, and he was doomed to a life of hearing them bicker and argue.

 _Let them find their balance. I've done all I can._

The town was suspicious of strangers, but not of coin. Fiorentino fed and watered the horses while Leonardo tended to their own supplies – food, water, books, etc. Salaì made a nuisance of himself elsewhere.

"Where's Gian?" Fee asked, reaching up to stroke a horse's bowed head. His father was walking behind him, arms full of provisions, and glanced at him before he turned to his bags and replied.

"He's looking at the hats in the tailor's shop. Can you believe it? A tailor's shop, in such a small town!"

Fiorentino's eyes darkened. He half turned his head to peer at Leonardo, but the artist's back was turned to him. His hand fell from the horse's mane to his side and he span on his heel, moving to the weapons loaded on the stables' worktable.

"Il fastidioso trovano sempre il modo di sprecare i soldi."

"Leave him be, Fee. He's done you no harm."

"He's a reckless spender and a leech on your resources. He steals your coin and dallies in his duties. An apprentice is meant to listen to and learn from his master – at best, he's a lazy assistant."

"You're far too harsh with him. It's been a hard time."

"Laxity will do you no favours, Maestro."

"I've done well so far," the artist hummed while he loaded the bags back into the cart. "After all, I raised you."

Fiorentino paused, but despite the rebuttals that pricked at his tongue he sighed and argued no more. He and Gian had different temperaments – when he was the apprentice's age he was in training, sent off into the world with a blade and 'loyalty' stamped on his heart. He was a bookish child, an honest one. Salaì was an opportunist. The only laws that dictated him were laws of his own design, and deep in his heart how Fiorentino envied him!

"Isabella will be pleased to see you, Fee." Leonardo ventured once the man's silence started to unnerve him. He received a snort in return. "She will. She's missed you so."

"And I her. But I had hoped she would leave me in the past."

"Any mother would miss her child's father as he grows."

"Per favore, Maestro, no more. Salaì needs to return – we must set off."

Leonardo frowned, but he acquiesced and went to find the boy. Fiorentino spent the time he had alone thinking to himself. Isabella had not mentioned another child in her letters to Leonardo, had hardly even mentioned Cristiano unless it was a complaint or relevant detail, which made him curious. Had she had another? Was his son her only child?

He was uncertain how the thought made him feel.

"Already?" he heard the familiar whine from Salaì as he and the artist appeared in the stable; "But we only stopped here a half hour ago."

"It's all we have time for. My business in Rome needs to be as short as possible."

"Aren't you excited to see Isabella again?"

Fiorentino double-checked the horses' blinders and reins before he clambered on the carriage. He did not look at Salaì when he replied, "Only time will tell."

Leonardo noted the sadness he did not mean in his voice. Gian heard it as well, but he was more used to it than his mentor. He had no reference of Fiorentino's personality before the thoughtful despondency had descended over it. Leonardo, though; he remembered a curious Fee, a happy Fee, a Fee who sucked at his knuckles and haphazardly slapped paintbrushes over parchment, recognising 'art' as a profession but not a concept. He had called him his driving force, had held him in his arms when he was small and helpless, had watched him sleep at night with the entire world silent and unaware. To hear that sadness not only hurt him, it shattered that image he had of Fee a little more each time.

"Let's be off," said the man, and he cracked the reins that sent the horses trotting.


	13. The Destined Man

Their arrival in Rome was quiet and inconspicuous. The horse fed at a nearby stable which Leonardo paid for, and soon afterwards Salaì and the artist set their possessions down in their inn and cleaned themselves up. In that time, Fiorentino had vanished to other duties.

"Riuscirà a tornare presto?" Salaì asked as he washed his face of sweat and invisible dirt. He frowned at the specks of dust on the mirror.

"I hope so," Leonardo replied, dipping his cloth in the basin; "I worry about him. This insane task he sets himself on-"

"Isabella?"

"No, after that. Once he finishes his business here – and really, will he ever finish his business with Isabella? Those two are destined to find each other no matter the distance – he'll be heading to Firenze, to investigate the catacombs."

"Is it a rite of passage that every assassin spend time in a catacomb?" he snorted.

"The catacombs are rich with history and treasure, Salaì. But, you're right. It seems every Auditore finds himself there at some point." Leonardo sighed. He set down his cloth and sat on one of the beds, his face turning despondent and remorseful. "He's such a gentle boy. This world has been far too cruel to him."

Salaì settled down on the bed beside him. He touched his mentor's shoulder, offering him an encouraging smile despite the sadness in Leonardo's eyes.

"Maestro, you shouldn't frown – it will age you."

"I feel a thousand years old already," he chuckled.

"Well, you look not a day over thirty!" Salai said, "And there's no reason to fret over Fee, hm? He's a resourceful man. Noioso, ma pieno di risorse. He will find what he's searching for."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Even if he finds the pieces, I fear he'll not find what he's truly after."

"What is that?"

Leonardo raised his head. Through his long hair Salaì could see his eyes – intelligent, melancholy eyes that looked at him, sparking wonder deep in his idle mind. Leonardo had always managed to evoke a sort of knowledge lust in him. To be near the man was intoxicating.

"Redemption." He replied, simply and honestly, "He's trying to redeem himself, to end a war that's claimed so many thousands, so many innocent lives, so many sons and daughters. But I fear the pieces won't hold all the answers he's searching for. And if they do, and he's able to end this mad war? What then? He'll never forgive himself. He'll still lie in bed at night, alone, thinking about the eyes of that first guard, that first drop of blood that named him assassin. He's my son. On his path, I believe he's forgotten that."

Salaí's smile turned sympathetic. He clutched Leonardo's shoulder, his eyes soft and gentle, inviting, even. "Trust me, Maestro – Fiorentino is your son before all else."

The pair were silent. The artist could hear the bustle of city life outside, and when he looked up at the window streaming with sunlight he saw a dove perched on the sill, cleaning its white feathers as it cooed; a soft, faint sound that reminded him of the easy days of Fiorentino's infancy, when he was just a small malleable new-born in Leonardo's arms.

 _His eyes were too kind for this world,_ he thought as he remembered: _His little hands were too gentle, his skin was too soft. The cruelty of Man was always destined to batter him. He and I were too naïve to stop him travelling down the path of his forefathers. Can he save himself, as I failed to save him?_

The dove met his eye. He felt it stare into his soul – a messenger, perhaps, bearing forth news of the coming war, the war that would end a conflict too long and quiet to be paid attention to.

 _No. I fear no man can save my son now._

"Tell me, Maestro," Salaí's voice caught his attention; "What was Fee like as a child?"

He smiled.

"Fee was…oh, he was a serene boy. He was a quiet baby, only crying when he needed feeding or changing, and grizzled only when he was coming down with a fever. Once he was older, he was shy – he gawked at strangers discreetly, helped me clean my shop, and my, was he kind! He once untied a pigeon from a trap we had set and let it free outside, claiming it was a 'dove with grey feathers'. He would protest if the assistants used lethal traps for pests, and he'd feed stray cats at our backdoor if there was food to spare. Once he met Isabella, he was as polite as a child can be – they picked bellflowers and daisies together, freeing animals from cages, and spent their time in the shade picking apart grass blades.

"He helped me as much as he could, and he was studious. I thought once to make an artist out of him, but he was more inclined to words than he was sculpting or painting. The first time I held him, Salai, I swear I had found the meaning of life – and it wasn't material wealth, it wasn't carnal pleasures or power; it was a child, a baby, sucking wet patches in my shirts and staring at me with those enormous, beautiful eyes…"

Leonardo sighed. He remembered the first time he had seen that basket on his porch in Florence; it was raining, and a storm was blowing in which had restricted him to his workshop. The knock was almost silent against the wind. He often scared himself with thoughts about if he had not heard it, as if the very idea would throw him back in time and snatch Fiorentino from him, force him to live a life without those happy memories and their inseparable bond.

 _I love Fee,_ he told himself: _I'll follow him to the ends of the Earth if I have to. Non avrei mai lasciarlo. He's my reason for drawing breath._

There was a knock at the door. A polite voice called out, 'Maid!' as the pair rose to their feet.

"Come in, come in!" said Leonardo. A petite woman came in dressed in modest clothing, smiling at them as she passed to organise their room and double-check the provisions. She must have been about sixteen, seventeen years old; her lust for life had not yet been quelled, the exuberance in her eyes youthful and telling.

"A man dropped off a letter for you, Maestro da Vinci," she mentioned as she went about her business; "He was quite insistent you read it before dinner."

"Did you see who the man was?"

"Oh, yes – well, I suppose. He wouldn't leave a name. He was quite secretive, Maestro. But he had such lovely eyes!" She sounded almost wistful, airing the sheets in their room with a sigh in her voice. "And he sounded educated. I suppose you might know better than I."

Leonardo smiled. "Yes, perhaps I might."


	14. The Agreement

_Dear Maestro—_

 _Fear not – I am safe. I will not return tonight, for I must meet first with the Roman thieves and question them about the city's mood. We must tread carefully. The Vatican and their eyes are all around us, and if we are caught in their sights we will come to regret our journey._

 _I have enclosed a map of the city. Give it to Salaí. No doubt he will find the tailors and taverns without much trouble. Be wary, Father – I fear there is a viper in this field, and we are half-blind men stumbling to water._

 _Be safe,_

 _Fee._

Leonardo had read his letter a number of times, even after he had retired for the night. It worried him that his son had not returned to visit them. He waited on edge to hear a crier call out that an assassin had set foot in the city and, soon, all the guards would be upon him.

"Maestro," said Salaí as he put the washbasin cloth to the side, "That map Fiorentino sent us – do you have it?"

"Yes, I do. Are you going out?"

"No, non ancora, almeno. I've had a thought."

Leonardo handed the map to him, though his brow furrowed and he eyed his student with a puzzled frown. "Why do you want it?"

"The Roman thieves," he opened it up and held it to the light; "I've heard him murmur in his sleep before. Fiorentino met them near the colosseum, which means he must have spent the night in one of the farms-"

"And what does this have to do with you, Salaí?"

"I want to see!" he replied. "Fiorentino is always so _severe_. He hardly ever smiles, he rarely drinks wine, he's humourless – and your story tells me he was a happy child!"

"No," said Leonardo, and his stern frown and serious gaze brooked no room for argument; "Let him be, Salaí; leave Fee alone. Go with the map and find the tailors – we may need them later."

Gian scowled, but obeyed.

* * *

The thieves were more than helpful, and when he had the information he needed Fiorentino promised that Ezio would soon land in Rome and cause quite the stir, lessening people's paranoia over their coin purses. The news brought smiles to his friends' faces. Theirs was a delicate art, and any advantage was welcome.

"Aspetta, amico," one man caught him before he could vanish through the door of the brothel. He turned and smiled. Antonio was a lithe man, made up of long limbs and a curiously sharp face, but his eyes were warm and intelligent. Young and inexperienced, he reminded Fiorentino of an excitable dog. "I have a question for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. There's a woman, you see – I see her often in the town, with her husband, usually. I've had a mark out on her necklace for a few weeks, but she's fiercely protective over it. Do you have any tips on how to creep through her house and steal it while she sleeps?"

"I have advice for you, friend," Fee replied; "Don't venture into someone's home unless absolutely necessary. There's no necklace large enough to be worth the risk."

"Have you not done the same?"

Memories flashed through Fiorentino's mind. He caught fleeting images of faces in the dark, bodies curled up under blankets and quilts, of dogs growling until he satiated them with meat. But most of all, he could feel the terror, the thrumming of his heart against his ribcage as he stepped down a flight of stairs and hoped – prayed, even – that no child would wake and see him.

"I have," he said, "and there's no terror like it. One wrong move, and you'll be facing a hangman's noose before the month is up. Leave it be, Antonio. Who is the woman?"

Antonio's face was dark with disappointment, and he was almost sullen when he replied, "Isabella."

Fiorentino's lips thinned. "Isabella?" His body turned more fully towards him, as he had moved to open the door. "Describe her."

Antonio appeared confused, but he complied.

"A beautiful woman," he said; "Long hair, blonde, grey eyes. Taller than most – perhaps a few inches shorter than you." The assassin's eyes grew more severe as he spoke, and when he cut in, he did so sternly:

"Let Isabella and her family alone. No one's to rob them."

Antonio's eyebrow rose. "No one at all?"

"No," he said, "and I'll say the same to your leader when he returns. Isabella, her husband, and her son are to be left alone."

"Is she someone important to you?"

Fiorentino fell silent. He stared into Antonio's eyes, willing him to understand, but he was young. Their experiences were not the same, and he could never hope to excite some sympathy in him.

"Yes," he said, "Very much so. She and her family are not to be interfered with. Where does she live?"

"One of the manors on the east side of the Tiber River. I'll find a map and mark it for you. Are you planning on meeting her? Is she an assassin concern?"

Fiorentino's mouth twitched, "To an extent."

"Not a matter for thieves."

The voice jolted both Fiorentino and Antonio out of their discussion, and with a smile the assassin welcomed Matteo, the thieves' leader. Matteo's calm, cool blue eyes stared into Fiorentino's wide brown, nodding Antonio away before he spoke.

"I apologise for him," he said once they were alone, "Eager to make his mark."

"It's fine, as long as we have no trouble. Isabella is very important to me. I want her immune to us."

"If what you say about Ezio's arrival is true, then we'll have no shortage of people to steal necklaces from. Relax, amico. Isabella and her family are free from harm." Matteo smiled at him and, despite himself, Fiorentino felt comforted. "Now, let me fetch you a map and mark her manor. There's some debate over it at the moment – you'll have to be careful. Guard presence has been increased."

"Cristiano and his brother?" said Fee as he followed him through the dimly lit corridors of the rundown villa, avoiding the girls as they prepared themselves for their evening. Matteo opened a door and led him into a room with covered windows and several candles, which he quickly set about lighting.

"Their argument is the talk of the town," he explained; "Their father's business remains in Cristiano's hands until such a time when his brother can prove he has more right to it. It's all very political. In my opinion, it's a pissing contest – Abele and Cristiano have been at each other's throats for as long as they've had reason to envy each other."

"Motivo di invidiare l'altro?"

"Oh, Abele is jealous of his brother's life – a business, a beautiful chaste bride-" Fiorentino kept his face carefully blank, "and, of course, a son. Cristiano simply hates his brother's good looks and natural athleticism. It's pathetic how petty their troubles are."

Fiorentino shook his head, then gripped Matteo's arm and drew his attention to him. He tried once more the silent appeal that had no effect on Antonio.

Matteo understood.

"I'll fetch the map," he said; "and, amico…I wish you the best of luck."


End file.
